


A Child of My Own

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade tried to put his desire for children out of his mind.  Divorced from his wife for exactly that reason and now remarried to Mycroft, it seems his dreams are about to come true.  But are they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up Call

Mycroft slowly slid the mobile from his ear and dropped it on the desk in front of him, ignoring the clattering noise the plastic made upon impact with the solid wood. He leaned forward, pressing his hands to his face, before scrubbing downwards, and digging the tips of his fingers into his eyes. His hands ended up in the all-too familar prayer position at his mouth. His heart pounded loudly within his chest, so much so that he thought at any moment the cavity might burst open, exposing it for all to see. He was hardly prepared for the impact that three little words could have upon the domesticity of his life.

Hadn't the last year been hellish enough? Apparently not. Now a new kind of hell was being born and this time, it was all his fault.

He gathered up his overcoat and umbrella and summoned his PA for a car. Time to head out, damn whatever international crisis might be lurking around the bend today. There was a bigger crisis brewing at home.

oOo

“Mycroft, I told you. I’m moving out. I don’t want to discuss it anymore. We’ve been over it time and time again. Now leave it!” Greg voice was going hoarse from loudly repeating himself to the man. Since when did he have to repeat himself to either of the Holmes? Bloody mind-readers that they were, normal conversation sometimes didn’t even seem necessary.

“Gregory, I am not trying to discuss it, I am trying to understand it. What you are doing makes no sense!” Mycroft reached out to grab Greg’s wrist to stop him from filling up his duffle bag but Greg was too fast, having anticipated the move and jerked his hand back violently. He shoved the last of his shirts into the bag and stepped around Mycroft.

"Dammit Greg, stop this. I don't want you to go. We can be happy. This is what you wanted, isn't it?" The frustration that had been building over the last few weeks was evident in his voice.

“Yeah. Yeah, it _was_ what I wanted. Just not like this. You can't go behind my back and try to fix it by pulling shit like this. It doesn't work that way." Greg took a few more steps towards the door before halting at the sound of Mycroft's broken voice.

"I did it for you. Always for you."

He hestistated. God, he wanted nothing more than to believe Mycroft, that all of it would turn out fine. But the previous loss was still causing too much pain inside him and he couldn't risk being broken again. Not when he'd come so far in piecing himself back together. It took every ounce of strength within him to do this, because, God help him, he did still love Mycroft. But this was inexcusable. This went beyond meddling into downright treachery and that, that was something he couldn't tolerate.

Shaking his head, he began to take the remaining steps that would lead him away. "Goodbye Mycroft.” 

Mycroft could only stand stock still and watch as his husband of 5 years vanished through the bedroom door.


	2. Finding Love

_(~18 months earlier)_

It had been a typical day at the Yard, pulling paperwork and managing assignments for ongoing cases. Greg was looking forward to the end of his day and going home to Mycroft. They had nothing specific planned for the evening but since both of them being home on the same night was a not a frequent occurrence these days, he couldn’t say he was disappointed at the lack of plans. It would be nice to just spend a lazy evening at home together. Just then there was a knock on his office door, and he looked up to find the distinguished man in a three-piece suit leaning against the frame.

“Mycroft! What are you doing here?” With a smile of pleasant surprise, he rose to his feet came around to the front of his desk.

Mycroft took a step into the office, and with a matching smile of his own, replied, “I came because I have good news and it couldn’t wait until this evening.”

Greg knitted his brows together in a look of confusion and curiosity. What could be so important that Mycroft would make a trip to the Yard to see him?

Mycroft took another small step and leaned slightly forward. He spoke in a whisper. “It worked.”

It took a split second for Greg to catch up, but when he did, a rush of adrenaline and joy overtook him and he reached forward, putting a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder for support. “Oh my god, really? Really?”

“Yes. I just found out and I didn’t want to wait until tonight to tell you.”

With that Greg took Mycroft into a bone crushing hug, not caring who saw or heard the commotion in his office. “Oh my god Mycroft! Oh my god! We’re going to be parents!” He planted a chaste kiss to his husband’s lips.

The scene in Greg’s office drew the attention of his team and his office began to fill with coworkers, along with scores of congratulations, well-wishes, and celebratory pats on the back for both men.

It had only taken a few months to find a surrogate they were both happy with and to make the necessary arrangements for her care and put the contracts in place for the birth and the adoption after. They decided that since Gregory had long since wanted children that they would use his sperm to fertilize the egg this time. Next time, if there was a next time, they would use Mycroft’s. Greg was thrilled. It took three tries with in vitro but the third time it took and now they had the joyous news that their surrogate was expecting.

Greg wasn’t sure of a time he’d felt happier or more content. Here he was, a successful DI, with a handsome and powerful husband, a satisfying marriage, and now, a dream come true, a child on the way. He’d wanted children, ached to be a father for as long as he could remember, but had been unable to get his wife pregnant. Not that she ever truly wanted kids; she’d only agreed because he’d practically begged her. When, after 4 years of trying, she continued to adamantly refuse to go for fertility tests or treatments, he gave up. That, as they say, was the beginning of the end of their marriage. Greg tried to bury the desire deep, compartmentalize it into the space of “things I’ll never have” and forget about it. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. What he wanted was a child. Or children, if he was really lucky. And now, he was going to have just that.

oOo

The "Love Story", as he liked to call it, between him and Mycroft, started, of course, with a common concern about Sherlock. They spent countless hours together at the beginning of their acquaintance nursing Sherlock through cocaine highs and paranoia and through three stints in rehab. Since that time, they’d remained close to each other in the name of “handling” Sherlock, but since John Watson’s arrival into his life, Sherlock needed less and less handling from others. Greg assumed that Mycroft would move on to other business since the situation with Sherlock was mostly sorted. Things had been stable for a good while and with Sherlock’s purpose found and the tempering force of John in his life, it didn’t seem that Mycroft would need much else from Greg. To his surprise, Mycroft continued to extend invitations to him for dinners or drinks and even more to his surprise, he continued to accept.

Mycroft turned out to be a surprisingly good mate, especially during the more frequently occurring lows of his marriage. More than once he found himself in the guest room of Mycroft’s lavish London flat, after a bad row with his wife that usually ended in her demand that he get the hell out. He guessed this was Mycroft’s way of thanking him for putting up with Sherlock, maybe because he didn’t want to think of what else it might be.

Everything changed when, late one night, maybe 1 or 2 in the morning, he found himself on the threshold of Mycroft’s flat, ringing the buzzer as if the world depended on it. He and the wife had had it out earlier in the evening, a particularly devastating blow since he’d managed to get the afternoon off and arrived home with flowers and an expensive bottle of wine. She laid into him almost as soon as he opened the door to their flat, over what he couldn’t even remember, but he did remember the bottle of wine smashed to pieces on the kitchen floor and the flowers being torn apart. He stormed out, but not before she made sure to know he wasn’t welcome to come back this time. It was finally over.

He spent the rest of the evening drowning each of his sorrows in pints, one pint for every sorrow, until he could hardly hold his head up. The porter called him a taxi and, having nowhere else to go, he found himself at Mycroft’s.

Mycroft was wide awake even at that late hour and welcomed him in, ushering him to the couch in the lounge, where Greg laid out his heart over his broken-never-to-be-repaired marriage, but more importantly, over his crushing desire to be a father. He’d never shared that with anyone. The emotion of it was too great and he felt if he gave voice to it, he would die under its weight. So it was better to keep it inside and not let anyone see that weakness.

When he awoke the next day, he found himself in the guest room as he had numerous times before, but this time he woke with a swollen head, a broken heart, and a good dose of embarrassment for crashing Mycroft's place at an ungodly hour and pissed to boot. Embarrassment turned to confusion and then gratefulness when he fished his phone from his trouser pocket to find a text from Mycroft waiting for him.

_Gregory, stay as long as you need. Your things from your flat will be delivered to you this afternoon. Mycroft Holmes_

oOo 

He took Mycroft's offer to heart and stayed for a few weeks, until he could get things with his wife sorted regarding the divorce and splitting their assets. Mycroft was easy to live with, mostly because of how much time he spent away from his home. When he was there, he and Greg talked and laughed, watched telly, and enjoyed a few meals together. Cooking was one of the few hobbies Greg enjoyed and so, as a way to thank Mycroft for his help during a difficult time, he would prepare a meal if he knew Mycroft would be home on the same evening he would be there.

A few weeks turned into a month and a month turned into two and both men found themselves longing for the other to come home, just for the chance to spend time together. Their first kiss was shared over a pot of pasta Greg was cooking on one such evening.

Mycroft had arrived to the flat to find Greg in the kitchen, as was his custom if he knew Mycroft would be there. It smelled delicious so he headed straight to the kitchen, setting his overcoat and briefcase down in one of the chairs at the high bar. 

"That smells heavenly Greg. I think you missed your true calling as a chef." Mycroft leaned over the pot, bringing the wooden spoon to his mouth for a quick taste, before realizing just how close he was standing to Greg. Greg watched as he sampled, a beautiful genuine smile overtaking his face, and the moment the pair locked eyes, the grin became more of an open mouth and his gaze began to sweep over Mycroft's face, landing on his lips. Greg licked his own, and Mycroft straighted up, closing the small gap between the men, before cupping Greg's face in one hand and putting his other around Greg's waist. Mycroft leaned in slowly and began to kiss Greg, sweetly at first, then more firmly as Greg began to welcome the kiss.

Dinner was long forgotten behind a trail of clothes that led to Mycroft's bedroom.

They married just a few months after Greg's divorce became final.


	3. I Can't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is so close to getting what he's been yearning for and in a split second, he loses it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all fairness, I have zero knowledge of how this scene would play out in real life. I have taken the liberty of making it dramatic because, like Sherlock, I do love to be dramatic.

The pregnancy was mostly uneventful. They accompanied the surrogate to her appointments and once a week, the three of them had dinner. Greg tried to check in on her every day, whether it was just a call or a few quick texts. It wasn’t the same as having a wife who was pregnant with his child but he was determined to be as close to her and as involved in the pregnancy as he could be. She had no way of knowing how long he’d waited for this.

He and Mycroft went about life as normal, busy with work, busy with Sherlock, busy with life. They spent what precious time they had together preparing the baby’s room; Greg insisted on painting and decorating it himself, while Mycroft would have preferred to hire someone else to do it. But his ultimate desire was to make Gregory happy, so he let the man go wild. The one allowance that Gregory made for Mycroft was a visit to a posh baby store, where he picked the cot, other furniture and the pram they would need. The only thing left to make the room perfect was their baby.

oOo

Greg was in the middle of chasing a suspect when his phone rang. He felt it buzz in his pocket, but with his hands wrapped around a gun, and his team ready to break in a door to get to the man, he couldn’t answer.

An hour later, when the suspect had been caught and the scene was clear, he checked his phone and got a message from Mycroft that changed everything.

oOo

Abusing his privileges as a DI, he used his lights and siren to cut through the hell of London traffic to make it to the hospital. Running through the doors to A&E, he found Mycroft and, out of breath, managed to get out “Where is she?”

“Gregory, calm down. Breath. She is in a private room and they are trying to get the contractions stopped.”

“We need to see her Mycroft. I want to see her!” Greg was bordering on hysterical. The surrogate was just past six months into the pregnancy. The doctors had to stop the contractions or else – he didn’t want to think about the else.

“We can as soon as you calm down. You will do her no good being in this state.” Mycroft placed a gentle hand on Greg’s shoulder, locking eyes with him. “She’s getting the best care possible. Just calm down.”

Greg took a few deep breaths and concentrated on Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder. Instinctively he reached for Mycroft’s other hand and took it in his own. Closing his eyes, he imagined them holding their baby and the happy ending to the story. Slowly, ever so slowly, his heart rate lowered and his breathing evened out.

“Ready?” Mycroft inquired gently.

“Yeah.”

oOo

It was a picture he couldn’t get out of his mind. Greg, on his knees, clinging desperately to their son, his head buried in the child’s soft fuzzy hair, sobs wracking his body causing him to shake violently. Sobs punctuated with pleadings of no and not this. Mycroft could hardly stand to look at it, the heartbreak of his husband so evident for all to see. He went to his knees in front of Greg and pulled both of them to him, Greg’s painful sobs making him want to wretch. The stillborn was beautiful and looked so much like Greg already. He had dark fuzzy hair and a round face, his nose and chin were exactly like Greg’s. Behind him, a nurse tapped him on the shoulder and he looked up. They needed to take the baby. Mycroft leaned back a little, just enough to nuzzle his nose and mouth near Greg’s ear. He spoke tenderly. “They need to take him Greg. It’s time to let him go.”

“No…I can’t…no. I can..can’t. Can’t let him go.” Greg’s voice was too small and broken. It was as if his entire being died along with his son.

“Gregory, we have to say goodbye now. Let them take him. Please.”

Taking a few deep breaths as if to gather what remaining strength and courage he had, Greg handed the small bundle to the nurse and then collapsed completely into Mycroft, seeming impossibly small.

“Why, Mycroft? Why? Why?” The heart-wrenching sobs started anew.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Mycroft Holmes had never felt so lost or helpless before. The only thing he could do was to hold Greg tighter.


	4. Goodbye and Broken

They buried their son in the same cemetery that once bore a headstone for Sherlock, but unlike Sherlock’s, the baby’s headstone was barely noticeable. They had christened him Simon Edrick Holmes –Lestrade, taking names from both of their family lines. It was Greg who asked for a small service of just friends because he couldn’t stand the thought of having any of his colleagues show up and give him those pitiful looks. It was bad enough to see it from Mycroft, John, or Mrs. Hudson, and even to some extent, Sherlock. He felt like the inside of his soul was on display to everyone in the city of London – his desire for a child and now the loss of a child making him a creature even he was not sure he recognized. It was an ache deep within his soul that he could not escape, not matter the method he tried.

As the tiny coffin was lowered into the earth, he leaned heavily on Mycroft and bit back the tears. Words were said, flowers were laid, hugs, handshakes, and pats on the back were given until he and Mycroft were the only ones standing before the now-full grave.

The carefully constructed dam broke and tears flooded his face. “Oh god Myc, why?” He just needed the answer to why he was standing at the grave of his son rather than holding him in his arms. He’d been so close to his dream, to his perfect life, why did it all end this way? How would he ever be whole again? Could he ever be whole again?

“I don’t know Gregory. Truly, I don’t. I would do anything to change this, if I could.” He clung tighter to his husband, placing a gently kiss at the top of his head. The doctors could give no satisfactory explanation for why the baby died in utero when the surrogate seemed perfectly healthy. Sometimes things just were, whether you liked it or not. Mycroft thought that perhaps if they could have at least an answer to that question it might help both of them to accept this fate. Or maybe if the miscarriage would have happened earlier in the pregnancy, it might have been easier for Gregory. 

“We’ll try again. There is hope for that. Let’s go home now.” 

And with that Mycroft lead a sobbing Greg Lestrade away from that tiny grave site.

oOo

Time came to a screeching halt for Greg. He tried to go back to the Yard, but he found that he couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts kept floating back to the day, to the call, to holding his dead son in his arms for the first and only time at hospital. Images of what the child looked like burned in his mind, and he went over and over the prior six months of the pregnancy trying to see if there was anything he could have done to change the outcome.

He tried for maybe a week to get back to work, to shove the pain and despair back down to a dark place where it couldn’t get light to take root and live, but it didn’t work. It became harder to get out of bed with each passing morning, until finally Mycroft stepped in and demanded that Greg take leave from the Yard. Reluctantly he gave in and let Mycroft make the arrangements.

The anguish consumed him. It grew like a festering welt, the more he cried, the more it seemed to tear at him, breaking him down into tiny little pieces that he doubted anyone could put back together. Day after day he went to his son’s room and sat in the rocking chair in the corner, staring at the cot. The empty cot. The cot he know thought would never be filled.

That was how Mycroft found him one afternoon. His eyes were blank, there were no tears there this time – he’d long since given out of fluid earlier in the day. He was glassy, his face stony and devoid of anything. It was simply as if Gregory had gone away and left only the shell of his body behind. Mycroft stood at the door to the nursery, one hand on the knob, and with a small sigh, just watched. It broke him to see Greg give up like this. He knew the man’s pain was deep but he couldn’t continue this way.

“Gregory“, he started softly. The only reply was a soft hmm from across the room. He crossed and slid down in front of his husband. “Gregory, please, you’ve been in here like this for days. Please come out and have something to eat. Talk to me. Let’s go for a walk or watch telly. Please. Let’s do anything but continue to sit here. Please.”

Greg slowly turned to face Mycroft but the movement was mechanical. “Ok” was all he managed to get out as Mycroft led him by the arm from the room.

He guided Greg to the couch and settled him in before flicking on the telly to football and retreating to the kitchen in search of something to eat. He set the kettle to boil, and as he scoured the kitchen for biscuits, he fumbled with his mobile and made a call to John.

“Mycroft, hi.”

“John.”

“What can I do for you? How’s Greg?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Greg is not well, John. Can you come round? I think a good mate might be helpful and I’d like your opinion as a professional.”

“I can Mycroft, but you know that depression is not my area of medical expertise.”

“I do, John, but I also know that Gregory is not in a place where I can suggest anything more.”

“Then I’ll come round. Is now good?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, right. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.”

With the kettle boiled, Mycroft returned to the lounge with tea and biscuits. Greg hadn’t moved at all, and, although he was staring at the telly, his eyes were glossed over and unfocused.

“Here, love, please have some tea”, Mycroft uttered softly, holding a cup out. When Greg didn’t move to take it, Mycroft reached down and placed the cup in his hands. He looked down slowly but remained unfocused, even as he wrapped his hands around the cup. “Have a biscuit.” At that he shook his head no.

“John is coming to visit us later. I thought it might be good to have some company.”

No response. Mycroft sighed and sat in his chair, picking up his own tea cup on the way. They sat that way, in complete silence except for the telly, for an hour.

oOo

John sat on the sofa having taken the tea offered by Mycroft. Greg had left the room shortly after he arrived, with barely a spoken greeting to him.

“How long’s he been like this Mycroft?” John queried.

“Since the funeral, at least, maybe a few days before. He goes into the nursery and sits for hours.”

“Has he at least been eating?”

“Barely. Maybe a slice of toast in the morning and a cup of tea in the afternoon, if I am lucky. He barely says two words to me all day. He’s asleep when I get home and asleep with I leave. It’s not healthy for him John and I don’t know what to do.”

“You have to get him to talk to someone. Maybe medication.”

“I’ve tried. I suggest therapy but he just doesn’t respond. Short of physically dragging him there, I’m at a loss. Perhaps John, could you try to talk to him about it?”

“I can try Mycroft, but I don’t know that he’ll listen to me anymore than he would you.”

“At least try?”

“Yes, of course.”

oOo

John tapped on the door to the nursery, although it was wide open. Greg was standing in the center of the room, with his back to the door, head hung.

“Greg?”

“Yeah, John.” He turned to face John, who could clearly see the wetness on his cheeks.

“Hey, listen mate, I know this is hard, right. You should see someone, maybe a doctor. Mycroft is really worried about you. He doesn’t know how to help you.”

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“You need to talk to someone, Greg, anyone. I’m here if you need me.” He paused, hoping that Greg would respond in some way. When nothing was forthcoming, he continued. “Can I tell Mycroft to make you an appointment?”

“Yeah…yeah. I’ll go…talk to someone. You can tell him.”


	5. Tearing Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A physical manifestion of the pain inside...

_(two months later)_

Mycroft opened the door to the flat to the sound of a loud crash and screaming. Dropping his briefcase and brolly to the floor, he rushed into the flat, finding the source of the noise coming from the nursery. More crashes, the sounds of pottery breaking and wood splintering, and a flood of obscenities greeted him at the door. There was Greg, cricket bat in hand in an uncontrolled fury, smashing everything to bits. He was taking down the cot when Mycroft arrived.

“You fucking piece of shit! Get my fucking hopes up, taunt at me, and then leave me with what?! NOTHING!!” he screamed as he took a violent downward swing with the bat. The top rail broke in two and splintered on the floor.

The cot was the last thing standing; Greg had destroyed the other furniture the same way, no doubt from the looks of it. Pieces of the rocking chair were scattered in the corner. Picture frames given to them by friends were smashed to bits, glass everywhere. Little knick knacks Greg had purchased as decoration had been decimated with the bat. When all of that had been destroyed, it looked as though he’d turned on the walls themselves because there were large dents in the plaster. Still not satisfied, he’d then turned his rage onto the cot.

The shouting began to take the form of animalistic, guttural sounds as Greg continued to pound the cot with the bat. Mycroft stood at the door, uncertain of what to do, whether to intervene at risk of injury to himself, or whether to let Greg continue until he worked out of his system. He opted to let Greg continue since there wasn’t much hope for the furniture anyway.

Greg took a final swing at the cot, letting the bat fly out of his hands and bringing them to his face. He was breathing heavily, his face flush with rage and fury. He swung around, looking for something else to destroy when he spotted Mycroft standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching the scene before him. Greg gave a little start, the change in circumstance enough to knock him out of the rage he had been in, and he raked a hand through his hair.

“How long have you been standing there?” He asked gruffly, voice rough from the screaming.

“Long enough to see you bring down the wrath of God on the cot.”

“Oh.” Greg was still breathing heavily as he dropped his head towards the floor. He eyes caught sight of the destruction around him and it hit him just how animalistic he had behaved.

“Care to talk about it?” Mycroft’s voice was gentle. He really did just want Greg to open up to him, to let go of some of the hurt and anger he’d been carrying around since their son’s death.

“I..” Greg started. “I..I don’t know that I can.”

“But you can tear our flat apart? That’s easier for you?”

“I have to get out of here.” Greg tried to push past Mycroft but was caught by the arm, causing him to still.

“Please don’t Gregory. Don’t run from me. Please talk to me about this. We have to deal with it.”

But instead of yielding, Greg untangled himself from Mycroft’s hold and rushed out of the flat.


	6. Tangled Webs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh what tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive...Greg realizes he's reached the bottom of the pit and it's time to start climbing out, just as Mycroft has finally decided on a way he can "fix" this after all.

Greg left the flat after his little _tantrum_ and wandered. He didn’t feel like driving and besides, it probably wouldn’t have been a safe choice anyway given his emotional state. He thought the cold air might help calm him and get his emotions under control. He wandered aimlessly for a while, and then decided to take in from the cold in a local pub. He cozied up to the bar and ordered a pint. He raked a hand through his hair and took a large gulp. His thoughts were bouncing around his head like ping pong balls; everything was scattered and he just couldn’t get himself to think straight. What the hell had he done? He’d no idea how he ended up believing, even for a tiny second that smashing the nursery would help anything. But it was almost like some external force had taken his body and demanded physical action to appease the ache in his heart. Maybe he just needed some real reminder, a reminder in the corporal world of exactly what was going on inside. The more he thought, the more he realized that yes, the state of that nursery once he’d finished was exactly how he felt inside – torn, battered, and broken. Nothing in that room could be put together again and neither could he.

He knew he'd put space between himself and Mycroft. He still loved him, that wasn’t it, nor was it that he was mad at Mycroft. The man had tried so hard and been patient. He didn’t push, or ask too much but Greg was just so raw inside that it made him burn when Mycroft showed him affection. They hadn’t been intimate in months, hell, they’d barely spoken in months. Certainly nothing more than the typical pleasantries one usually exchanged with their spouse and sometimes not even that, if Greg couldn’t be arsed to do it. Greg felt as if everything was against him having it all and now that he had been so close, he couldn’t find contentment or peace in going back to before. If there was a God in heaven, why did he bring Greg so close to what he’d wanted for so long only to yank it out from under him the minute he was about to receive it?

Greg thought about his son. He was so tiny, and so perfect. One of the nurses had taken a picture of him after and given it to Greg, plainly against Mycroft’s wishes. But he had to have it. That was his child and it felt wrong to pretend he’d never existed. Greg fished it out from his wallet and inspected it carefully as he’d done so many times before. The little boy’s dark fuzzy hair stuck up on ends, and with his eyes closed he looked angelic, at peace. Greg remembered the weight of the body in his arms and the perfect stillness. It had been all wrong. Infants aren’t supposed to be still. They are supposed to cry and fuse and wiggle. Greg remembered collapsing with the small bundle clutched to his chest and the way Mycroft had held them both.

He had to find a way out of this, now more than ever.

oOo

Mycroft had the nursery cleared of the debris and the door to the room shut in the hopes that Gregory would stop retreating there. There was a distance between him and Greg now that he wasn’t sure how to bridge. It seemed as if Greg was drowning in an ocean that Mycroft wasn’t even swimming in. He had no idea how to get the closeness back that he and Greg had shared before the miscarriage, before the pregnancy. It was as if Greg was slowly turning to ice and Mycroft couldn’t melt through.

Mycroft’s heart was aching, aching because the man he loved was suffering and for the loss they had both experienced. He knew that the child’s death didn’t have the same impact on him as Greg, both because it wasn’t his biological child and he didn’t have the same wanton desire for a child that Greg did. That didn’t mean he was heartless; of course he understand the profound impact the loss had on his partner. The man had desired for a child for better than a decade and coming so close and then losing it all had to have devastated him. All Mycroft wanted was to bring Greg out of the cocoon he had built around himself, a cocoon which consisted of work, drink, and sleep. Oh Greg had agreed to go to therapy and he’d been faithful about his appointments, it was just that Mycroft didn’t see much improvement. It didn’t help that Mycroft had been unavoidably busy the last few with his position, but really it was no different than their lives before all of this happened.

Before all of this happened, well before the stillbirth happened, that’s when Greg had been the happiest. Mycroft remembered the smile that engulfed Greg’s entire face the moment he had told him that the in vitro had worked. If only Mycroft could get him to smile like that again, make him that happy again. And that’s when the idea started to shape in his head and he knew exactly to get that smile from Greg again.


	7. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft make up and begin to move forward, together.

Greg returned home sometime after midnight, grateful to see that Mycroft must have gone to bed. He dreaded having to discuss anything now; his head was pounding both from the amount of rage that filled him earlier in the day and from the pints he’d consumed in the last few hours. He wandered through the darkened flat until he came to the nursery, finding the door shut. He reached out to take the knob in his hand, his fingers hanging in mid-air before he thought better of it. He wasn’t sure if the destruction was still behind the door, but he realized that Mycroft had shut the door and quite right too. He needed to do the same; he needed to shut the door on the past and start to look forward. He’d spent too many hours in that room replaying the horridness of the last year and he’d caused a terrible gulf between himself and his husband. Mycroft was right; in time, they could try again. It wouldn’t mean that Simon was any less real or any less missed or that the pain of losing a child would ever dissipate completely, but it could be a start to their future. Someday.

He made his way to the bedroom he shared with Mycroft. The door was slightly ajar and a small sliver of light shown into the hall. He slowly pushed the door open to find Mycroft sitting on the bed, legs stretched out in front of him with reading glasses hanging on his nose. He was in a set of navy silk pajamas and Greg noticed, really noticed, for the first time in months how much he ached for Mycroft’s physical presence to engulf him. Mycroft put down the papers he was holding and looked up at Greg, with a careful expression.

“You’re back.”

“Yeah.” Greg took a tentative step into the room, hanging his head, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. “I’ve cooled off.”

“Well, good.” Mycroft waited patiently for Greg to offer an explanation or apology.

Greg looked up and caught Mycroft’s eyes. He was sorry and embarrassed and he felt like a complete arse. He wanted so badly to leap across the room and ask Mycroft to hold him. “I’m sorry My, really sorry. What I did earlier…I lost control. I, just, I’ve just been so angry and I needed to get it out. Look, it doesn’t it make it right, it doesn’t excuse destroying all the baby furniture, but I just lost it.”

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Greg. I don’t care about the furnishings; I only wish you could have talked to me about all of it. You aren’t the only one who lost a child. I did too, and I think I came frighteningly close to losing my partner too.” Mycroft hung his head, and reached to take off his glasses, setting them on the side table. “I’ve watched in anguish as you’ve tormented yourself all these many months. It nearly tore me in two to watch you go through this and not be able to do anything to help…to know you didn’t even want me to help…to know that you thought I couldn’t provide you any comfort.”

Greg inhaled sharply at that. Not once had he stopped to think about how his behavior, his reaction, his depression had impacted those he loved – Mycroft. The words stung like alcohol being poured on a fresh wound.

“I’m…I’m sorry Mycroft. I realized tonight that I’ve hit bottom and I had to start making my way out. I need you. I do need you.” Greg closed the distance and came to sit at Mycroft’s side on the bed. Mycroft leaned forward and put his hand on the side of Greg’s face, turning it to face his own.

“I’m here.”

Greg leaned in and placed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Greg’s tongue began to lick at Mycroft’s bottom lip and he opened his mouth to let Greg explore fully. Greg twisted on the bed, crawling on and over Mycroft, shifting him down so he was lying out fully. Mycroft’s hands made their way down Greg’s chest, hovering over each shirt button long enough to unfasten, until he was able to shove the shirt from Greg’s shoulders. Breaking the kiss long enough to remove his shirt, Greg began to kiss Mycroft with more fervor, gently rocking his hips into the other man’s groin. He moved his kisses from lips to cheeks to Mycroft’s neck, leaning on one hand and using the other to undo Mycroft’s pajama top. He pushed one side away gently and trailed a list of kisses down his chest, pausing to lick and nip at an erect nipple. Under him, Mycroft moaned and shifted and began to thrust his erection against Greg’s.

Greg sat up and Mycroft moaned at the loss of touch but watched as the other man climbed off the bed and quickly removed his trousers and pants in one fluid movement. Mycroft drank in the sight of his husband standing before him, naked, his penis flushed with arousal, twitching against his stomach. Greg leaned forward and pulled at the waist to Mycroft’s bottoms. Instinctively he raised his hips and Greg stripped the bottoms and his pants off, shucking them on the floor. He climbed back on top of Mycroft, begin kissing again, and using his hand to rub both of their cocks together. Mycroft groaned and wriggled, the sensation tingling through his whole body. Greg broke the contact again to lean forward to the side table, opening the top drawer and retrieving a bottle of lube. Mycroft’s eyes went wide as he realized what Greg was after. He was hard and aching and he wanted Greg to make love to him badly; they hadn’t been intimate in months. Just the thought of Greg penetrating him made him harder and he yearned for release.

Greg squirted the lube into his hand and coated his fingers, rubbing them against Mycroft’s warm opening. He teased a bit, pressing at the entrance but not inserting himself. Just as Mycroft thought he was going to have to beg, Greg slid a finger into him, moving in gentle circles. Mycroft writhed under Greg’s touch and soon a second, then third finger were in. He moaned and gasped and thrashed under Greg’s ministrations until he thought he could bear no more. “Please Gregory, please. Please.”

Not uttering a word, Greg’s fingers slid out, causing Mycroft to groan at the loss, just as felt the head of Greg’s cock at his hole. Greg slowly pushed, just sheathing the very tip of him inside of Mycroft before pulling out again. Again a pressure against his hole and it was all Mycroft could do to try not to impale himself on Greg. With that, Greg pushed in again, faster but gently, until he was fully seated in Mycroft.

“Oh God”, he moaned. “Oh God, Mycroft. I need you.”

“Take me.” Greg pulled out slightly and then began to pound into Mycroft over and over.

oOo

Greg lay on his left side, fast asleep and snoring lightly, as Mycroft watched. Greg, he decided, was beautiful. His salt and pepper hair was mussed from the love –making and the day-old stubble on his face highlighted the sharp angle of his chin. The only things more beautiful were the way Greg’s eyes lit up when he smiled genuinely. They would widen and brighten, but there were tell-tale creases in the corners when his cheeks rose with his mouth. Tonight, though, he finally looked at peace. Their love-making had not just been about the physical aspect of sex; Mycroft felt like his life had begun again, that the months spent watching his husband trapped in a pit of despair were over. Finally, finally the breakthrough had come and they were building a new, hopefully stronger, emotional connection.

Mycroft’s thoughts drifted back to the plan he’d hatched out after Greg disappeared earlier in the day. He’d already put some of it into motion and, as he watched his husband sleep soundly, he resolved that it was perfect timing for it, since Greg had turned a corner today.

Yes, he thought, this is exactly what he needs. Exactly what we both need.


	8. New Arrival

Greg continued to see a therapist and things at home began to improve. He and Mycroft were talking again, but more importantly were spending more time together. Greg’s therapist thought that Mycroft should come in for a few appointments and he agreed wholeheartedly. It was during one of their sessions that the therapist suggested they try to have a “couples date night” once a week. Greg thought it was a silly idea but Mycroft liked it; with their erratic schedules, it was nice to have one evening set aside for them to spend time together. Of course, every now and then it had to be canceled or rescheduled. After all, the government runs 24/7 and crime does not adhere to a clock, but they still made it work.

It was one such night that Mycroft decided to tell Greg about his plan.

Situated in an intimate booth, surrounded by the soft glow of candle light, both men were sated after a delicious three-course meal at Mycroft’s favorite. They were finishing up the last of the bottle of wine they’d ordered, and there was a lull in the conversation.

Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned back from the table, taking a small sip of wine from his glass. “I have something to share with you, Gregory.”

Greg leaned over the table, supporting himself with his elbows, the fingers of one hand toying with the stem of his glass. His face lit up as he looked at Mycroft. “Oh yeah, what’s that?” There was a mischievous glint to his eyes.

Mycroft took a deep breath, not quite sure where to start. “This last year has been incredibly rough on us, hasn’t it?” Greg nodded. “It’s time for us to go home. There’s something you need to see.”

Greg frowned as Mycroft made to stand up. “So what do you need to tell me?”

“Let’s go home so I can show you.”

oOo

Mycroft unlocked the front door, and, taking Greg by the hand, led him through the flat until they were standing in front of the door to the nursery.

“Here", he said.

“What? I don’t understand. Here what?” Greg’s heart started to thud painfully in his chest. The door to this room had remained closed since he’d carried out his vicious attack on the nursery furniture. He wasn’t quite sure he was ready to open the door again and he could even begin to imagine what was beyond it. Was it empty? Still full of the debris from that day? Maybe Mycroft had turned it into a reading room or a “man cave”?

Mycroft gently placed Greg’s hand on the door handle. “Open the door, Greg.”

Greg stared at his hand and began to turn the knob, hesitantly. The door creaked open slowly to reveal the room, flooded with soft light from a lamp on a side table. Greg froze, feet glued to the floor. The debris was gone and in its place were new furnishings – a rocking chair, a changing table and dresser, and a cot. A collection of playful alphabet paintings hung on the wall and there was a bookshelf full of stuffed animals, soft books, and a few other toys. The wall had been repaired and the room painted a soft shade of blue.

From behind him, Mycroft spoke. “What do you think?”

Greg blinked, stumbling for a response. He didn’t know what to make of the sight before him. He remained silent, still staring into the room.

He felt a gently hand on his shoulder. “Why don't you go in?” He couldn’t make himself move forward. It was just too much. Instead he spun around, looking Mycroft square in the face. 

“What is going on? Why have you redone the nursery?”

“Because we are expecting. Expecting a new arrival and he’ll need a room of his own.”

“What? What do you mean, new arrival? What the hell are you on about Mycroft?” Greg could feel his pulse quicken and the blood pounding through his head. He was confused and upset. Mycroft wasn’t making any sense and it didn’t help that the room had essentially been restored to what it was when they were expecting. Wait. Expecting… new arrival… Surely Mycroft didn’t mean…

Mycroft watched a flurry of emotions run across his husband’s face. “Greg, in a month’s time, we will welcome a little boy into our family. A son, your son. I…”Mycroft reached for Greg’s hand. “I hired a new surrogate and used the embryos from the last procedure. Everything is taken care of and the surrogate is doing well. He is your biological child, and the adoption papers are ready for me to sign.”

Greg couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, his heart pumping even faster and the whole room spinning around him. Mycroft’s words rattled around in his head but they didn’t make any sense. A son, his son, a surrogate, adoption…Mycroft had gone behind his back and…no, no, this could not be happening. It was too much, too soon, too…he didn’t even know. How could Mycroft think this would be okay?

“Wha…what?” He stammered. “How could you? This…” He gestured wildly with his hand at the room.” This is not okay.” He broke from his stance and bolted past Mycroft.

He thought he heard Mycroft call after him but it was all a blur as he rushed out of the flat into the chilly London night.


	9. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Sherlock thinks what Mycroft did was bad.

Mycroft sat in the lounge with another bottle of wine and only the whine of London traffic to break the silence. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected as a reaction but Greg storming out of the flat certainly wasn’t it. He’d tried to call and text but there had been no response. It was now nearing 2 am and there hadn’t been a peep from Greg. He decided to send one more text and then go to bed.

_Please come home. I am worried. MH_

He rose, leaving the bottle and the glass on the coffee table, and made his way down the hall. He paused in front of the nursery, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows into the hall. The room had been perfectly arranged and ever trace of Greg’s explosion removed. He thought that Greg would have been excited at the news that a child would be coming home to them soon. 7 months had passed since they’d lost Simon and Mycroft was plain tired of the emotional drama. It was draining. Greg had been steadily improving and he was stronger now. Maybe Mycroft had overestimated the amount of healing that had happened. Well, he couldn’t think about it now. There was only a month to go before the baby arrived and Greg just needed time to cool off and get over the shock. Once he did, everything would be fine. He closed the door and headed for the bedroom.

oOo

The next morning Greg still had not returned home and refused to answer either his mobile or the land line at his office. Mycroft sent another text.

_At least tell me you are safe. MH_

Nothing. The silence was unnerving. Mycroft tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate on his duties. Besides, he needed to visit Baker Street today and it would require every ounce of patience he had to deal with Sherlock.

“Hello brother. How are you?” Mycroft smiled thinly.

“Get out Mycroft.” Sherlock didn’t even look up from his microscope at the kitchen table.

“Tsk tsk Sherlock. I’ll leave when my business here is done.” With that, Mycroft seated himself in Sherlock’s chair, crossing his legs and twirling his umbrella in his hand.

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes raking over Mycroft’s form. “And what did you do to piss Lestrade off this time?”

Mycroft only answered with a smirk. “How is the case coming on Sherlock? I would have thought you’d have an answer by now.”

“Sherlock!” John came bounding down the stairs, into the sitting room. “Oh. Mycroft. Hellow.”

“John” was his answer.

“John! John, I told you…” Greg bounced off the last stair, rounding the corner into the room behind John. He froze when he saw Mycroft.

Mycroft all but leapt out of his chair at Greg. “Greg.”

“Mycroft.”

“I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“Nor I you. If you will excuse me.” With a slight bow to John and Sherlock, he spun on his heel and ran down the stairs.

Mycroft started as if to follow causing John to step in front of him, halting him with a firm hand against his chest. “Don’t.”

“John, I need to…”

“No, Mycroft. You need to back off. He can’t talk to you right now.” John was now in full military stance and meeting Mycroft’s vicious gaze with one of his own. The men continued to their staring content until Mycroft felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over to see Sherlock standing next to him.

“Leave it Mycroft. Greg needs time. What you did was inexcusable.” Mycroft flinched at the strong words from his brother; if Sherlock thought his actions were reprehensible, then how bad must they be. The thought hit him hard.

“I was only trying to give him what he wanted. Isn’t that good?” Panic started to set in his chest from doubt; Mycroft Holmes did not doubt.

It was John who spoke up this time. “No, Mycroft. What you didn’t wasn’t good. You made a major life-altering decision without discussing it with Greg and after what’s happened in the last few months, you didn’t even stop to consider if he was even ready for this. He’s only now beginning to hold his head above water and you come and throw him into the deep end of a pool.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and tutted. “Really John, the metaphors?”

John just threw him a glance, turning back to Mycroft. “Don’t you see that he’s just not there Mycroft? But now he has to be – you’ve given him no choice.”

Mycroft was speechless. He drew a breath and straitened himself, and, with a slight of his head to John and Sherlock, left the flat.

He paused at the door and spoke without turning back. “Tell him I’m sorry.”


	10. Goodbye

The next week moved agonizingly slow for Mycroft. He’d tried calling Greg a few more times, but the calls were met with voice mail. Texts proved to be just as ineffective and were ignored.

For Greg though, the week was one of the busiest he’d had in a while. There was a series of murders that at first didn’t seem to be connected. Greg had asked Sherlock to take a look just to make sure and that resulted in bounding all over London, interviewing people, searching for clues, and ending up in the Thames. In the end it was a group of men, who, in some sort of strange pact, were seeking revenge against past lovers who had slighted them. Once the killings were finished, the men were to gather on the bank of the Thames and set a bonfire to burn themselves to death. The case finally wrapped up, Greg collapsed on the couch in 221B for the sixth night that week.

Rubbing his palms against his eyes, he sighed. “I am absolutely knackered.”

“Yeah, it’s been one hell of a week.” John replied to him, stifling a yawn. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“Nah, thanks mate.” Greg sank back down into the couch, wriggling around, trying to get comfortable.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock’s voice reverberated up the stairs and through the flat, even as the man himself bound up them, two at a time. “Good God, will you please call Mycroft?!” He was exasperated.

“What the hell Sherlock?” John came out of the kitchen, cradling a cup of tea in his hands.

Sherlock filled the door way, coating swishing to a still around him. “Greg won’t answer his bloody mobile and Mycroft is pestering me.”

John just sighed, turning back to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it Sherlock but not tonight. I’m too tired for any of his shit right now.”

“What are you going to do?” Sherlock hung his coat and scarf on the hook, as John rounded the corner from the kitchen, handing him a cup of tea. He took it and ventured to his chair, sinking into it with the grace of an overgrown feline.

“I’m moving out.”

“What?” It was John who answered.

“I’m moving out. I can’t do this right now. It’s bad enough what happened with the other surrogate, but this isn’t something I can face right now. Mycroft created this mess so now he can deal with it.” Greg tried to conceal the hurt in his voice. He had spent the last week of sleepless nights and bad coffee thinking it over. He knew he couldn’t face Mycroft when he was still this angry and hurt, and afraid. Yes, he thought, afraid. I’m afraid of having a child now. If he let his guard down and welcomed in the pending arrival and then something happened…well, he knew he would never recover. Not to mention the betrayal he felt from Mycroft. The man went behind his back and did this without so much as a word or a hint. As if he could act as god, making life decisions, and expect everyone to be overjoyed.

“Wow Greg, that’s not how I thought this would play out. I’m sorry mate. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need, you know. Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock just grunted and Greg snickered. “Yeah, thanks for that. I have tomorrow off and am going to look at flats. I’ll let Mycroft know and make arrangements to have my belongings moved. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”

Under his breath Sherlock muttered “Thank God.”

“Sherlock.” John threw him a look of Shut It.

Greg just laughed at their antics, shaking his head. No wonder everyone thought they were a couple. They argued just like married ones.

oOo

The next morning, Greg flounced about London, looking for a suitable flat. He’d found one, near enough to the Yard, and once he’d made the necessary arrangements for it, he made his way to the flat he shared with Mycroft. Had shared. He knew Mycroft would be gone, either to Whitehall or the Diogenes and he’d have the place to himself. He just needed a few things from the clothes cupboard to get him through another week or so at Baker Street, until his new place was ready. He’d already called Mycroft on the way to the flat and they’d had a nasty row. In the end, Greg’s mind was made up and he’d hung up on Mycroft, to hell with him.

He made his way down the hall, stopping in front of the nursery. The door was open and Greg took in the scene again. He pictured himself, with his newborn son, gently rocking in the chair, humming something soothing. The image made his heart ache all over again. He did want it, wanted the happy family, but this wasn’t the way to it. He just needed time and space.

He was in the bedroom, shoving clothes into his duffle when he heard the front door unlatch. Shit, Mycroft must have decided to come home after their call. Well, there was nothing for it. He was not changing his mind. Besides, he was almost finished stuffing his duffel bag when Mycroft entered the room.

Another row, lots of shouting, a few empty promises and Greg found himself standing outside their flat, heading off to a future unknown.


	11. Making Amends

Life at Baker Street returned to normal, with just Sherlock and John in permanent residence. Greg had taken up at his new flat and Mycroft settled into a lonely exsistence at their old home. Mycroft called Greg at least once a day, but Greg still refused to answer. Suddenly the man who never texts if he can call started texting on a regular and persistent basis.

_The flat isn’t home without you. MH_

_I wish you’d answer my call. Please, let’s just talk. MH_

_Greg, come home. I miss you. MH_

_Are you going to ask me for a divorce? MH_

_The surrogate is doing well and the baby is growing. She says he is kicking her regularly now. MH_

_Can we talk today? MH_

_I’m not giving up, you know. MH_

_I know I made a mistake. I’m sorry. Come home. MH_

_Today is his due date. No signs he’s coming yet. MH_

_I love you. MH_

_Do you want to be there for the birth? MH_

_Greg, I love you with all my heart. MH_

_I only did this for you. I was misguided. Please come home. MH_

One by one, the texts kept coming and every one broke Greg’s heart a little more. He couldn’t bring himself to answer most of them. A few times he’d come close but always stopped before he could press send. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so he just said nothing. It was easier that way. His mind felt like a prism glass, shadows being thrown everywhere and nothing making sense. Until he could get a clear picture, he wouldn’t risk messing things up any more than they already were.

_Are you going to let me name him? He’s your son; don’t you want to do that? MH_

The last text finally broke through his defenses and he answered.

_Ethan Alexander Holmes-Lestrade. GL_

_Thank you. MH_

God, it was real. Ethan. Ethan Alexander. Alexander was his father’s middle name. Ethan was a name from the Holmes side, although Greg couldn’t remember whose it had been. It was the only other name he and Mycroft had decided on when they’d found out the first surrogate was pregnant. Simon Edrick or Ethan Alexander. He felt a twinge of guilt at using the other name but it felt right. He said it out loud several times to the empty room.

“Ethan Alexander. Ethan. Come here Ethan.” The sound was beautiful as it rolled off his tongue and he felt a little sprout of hope take root somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He still wasn’t sure where he and Mycroft stood, but a longing to hold his son in his arms was burning inside him. From Mycroft’s texts it was obvious the surrogate was doing well and the baby was healthy. He may be late, but there was nothing to indicate that he would suffer any complications. He was real and going to be born any time now.

Beep. Another text from Mycroft.

_Another checkup today. Surrogate doing well and is starting to dilate. Only a week overdue, but the baby…Ethan is healthy. MH_

Greg leaned back against his couch and flipped on the telly. He felt strangely content and slightly curious to meet his son. Should he attend the birth? He’d had to give it more thought.

oOo

Turns out Greg didn’t get much time to think that decision over as two days later he found himself in the maternity ward at hospital.

_Surrogate in delivery room. Ethan is on his way. Will you come? MH_

Ethan was coming. His son was being born. He stood in the waiting room, short of breath, hands twitching from nerves, looking frantically from side to side, not sure where to go.

“Sir, can I help you? Are you looking for your wife?” A nurse approached him, questioning gently.

“My husband, actually”, he replied, out of breath. “He came in with our surrogate about an hour ago?” Greg realized he didn’t even know the surrogate’s name or what she looked like. God, how awful had he been?

“Are you Greg Lestrade?” Greg nodded. “Yes, Mr Holmes said you might come. This way.” She led him through a set of double doors and into a long corridor. They stopped outside a room at the very end of the hall. “In here.” The nurse turned on her heel and left Greg standing at the door.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He caught sight of Mycroft at the edge of a hospital bed, a wide smile evident on his face. At the sound of the door, Mycroft turned to look, and catching sight of Greg, his smile grew even more. He held up his hand, signaling Greg to come into the room.

Greg approached slowly, coming to stand next to Mycroft at the foot of the bed.

“I’m so glad you came, Gregory.” He whispered. “Meet your son, Ethan.”

A young dark haired woman lay in the bed, holding the newborn out to him. Greg gave Mycroft an unsure glance and, at the nod of his head, stepped forward to take his son into his arms. “I’m Katherine. It’s lovely to meet you Greg. Mycroft has told me all about you. Meet your son, Ethan.”

Greg carefully took Ethan from Katherine’s arms, the little bundle gasping and cooing at the change in position. Greg looked at Katherine. She was a beautiful woman; she had wide, curious eyes, a petite nose and a mouth of thin lips and her hair was stunning shade of auburn. “Thank you” he choked out. “Thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for. I am glad to be able to help you”, she said.

Greg looked at the wiggly little bundle in his arms. The baby was swaddled tightly in his blanket, with a blue cap on his head. All Greg could see was his pudgy little face, his eyes scrunched up, and his little nose wiggling as he moved his head from side to side. He broke out in a huge yawn and Greg chuckled softly. “Sleepy baby boy? After all that rest and you’re still sleepy?” He took a stuttering breath and it caught, and he began to cry. “Oh my God. I love you so much already, Ethan. My son.” He looked at Mycroft, the tears making his vision blurry, and he reached out with his free hand to grab Mycroft’s arm. “Thank you. Thank you. Our son, Mycroft. Look at our son.” He pulled Mycroft to him, putting his arm around Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft slid his arms around Greg’s waist. They formed a small cocoon around Ethan, their foreheads pressed together, both crying at the joy of finally having their son.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later finds finds Greg and Mycroft enjoying some family time.

Greg leaned back on his elbows, legs straight out in front of him, watching the children playing in the grass. A soft blanket covered the ground, and was littered with the remains of their picnic lunch. To his left, Mycroft sat on a bench just beside the blanket.

One of the children, a little girl, ran over to Greg. “Daddy, Daddy! Ethan won’t let me have the ball!”

Greg smiled and sighed. “Go find something else to play with then.”

“No, Daddy! I want the ball!”

Mycroft leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and piped up. “Adelaide, you heard your father. Go find something else to play with.”

She turned and ran back across the field to the swings. The other children followed her, Ethan abandoning the ball.

“Figures, huh?” Greg laughed. Mycroft chuckled too and they sat watching the children play.

Mycroft broke the silence first. “I’m happy, Greg. Content, actually.”

“Hmmm” was the reply.

“Looking at Ethan and Addie now. Watching Jack run along there. A few years ago I might have thought you a fool if you had told me this would be my life .”

Greg turned to look at Mycroft. He noticed tears welling in his husband’s eyes. “Why’s that, My? What’s brought this on?”

“I was just remembering how Ethan was born. Thinking about Simon.” He paused to gather himself. It was rare to see Mycroft emotional and Greg moved to sit up and scoot closer to take his hand.

“It’s okay. Looked how it turned out in the end. Pretty good, hey?”

“That’s not the point, Gregory. It almost didn’t turn out at all and that would have been all my fault. I never told you I was sorry but I am. I am sorry that we lost Simon and I’m sorry for how I went about things with Ethan.” Tears rolled down Mycroft’s cheek as he turned his head from the children and let it fall towards his lap.

“Hey, hey, that’s all in the past. I’ve forgave you ages ago. Your heart was in the right place and we got Ethan out of the deal. And Adelaide and Jack too.” Greg lifted Mycroft’s head up by his chin. “My family, our family. Our perfect family.”

Just then the ball landed in Greg’s lap and Ethan ran up to fetch it. “You okay Papa?”

“I’m fine, Ethan. Dad and I were talking about old times, that’s all.”

“Alright. Dad, come kick the ball around with us yeah?” Ethan yelled as he took off.

“Give us a mo”, Greg called after him.

Greg turned back to Mycroft, who’d wiped his face rid of the tears and had regained some of his composure. “Mycroft, all that is long in our past. I love you, always have, and we need to live in today. We have three beautiful children together. With you and them, that is all I have ever wanted.” He leaned forward and gave Mycroft a peck on the cheek before rising. “Well, other than the kick my son’s butt at some football. Be back in a minute!” He ran off after Ethan.

Mycroft leaned back against the bench and watched his husband play with their children. It was a beautiful scene, one he tried to ingrain in his mind. He might not have much longer to enjoy it and he wanted the memory last for as long as he could.


End file.
